Let each man do his best.

So many horrid Ghosts.

Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.

No worse a husband than the best of men.

Boldness be my friend.

We must every one be a man of his own fancy.

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. And truly not the morning sun of heaven Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, Nor that full star that ushers in the even, Doth half that glory to the sober west, As those two mourning eyes become thy face: O! let it then as well beseem thy heart To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace, And suit thy pity like in every part. Then will I swear beauty herself is black, And all they foul that thy complexion lack